


Now I've Made My Mind Up

by aimmyarrowshigh, theghostofjamespotter



Category: Stereo Kicks (Band)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theghostofjamespotter/pseuds/theghostofjamespotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon, that would be over. They won’t be in this… limbo, anymore. They’ll know where they fit and be given a real place to keep. And maybe… well. Maybe Barclay will get to keep Tom.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>There's an empty space in my bed/there's an aching hole in my head/I've never felt so damn scared I'd lose you.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I've Made My Mind Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weddingbells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weddingbells/gifts).



> We're so sad. Inspired by [this post](http://stereokickssweden.tumblr.com/post/125065875242/what-if-barclay-fell-for-tom-when-tom-didnt-what). Which made us so sad.

**July. 2015.**

Taylor is the first person Barclay comes out to and it’s less “coming out of the closet” than it is “being _shoved_ out of the closet,” but given that it’s Taylor, Barclay doesn’t mind much.

He’s talking about Tom. Later, he won’t remember what exactly it was he said. He had talked about about Tom often and every conversation blurred together into one Tom-centric speech. He’s always talking about Tom, it seems. Even now that there’s no real reason, really, to talk about Tom.

But he finishes his thought and Taylor looks him dead in the eyes.

“Does Tom know you’re in love with him?” she asks.

Barclay freezes, for a second believing he might have let something slip. He’s always so careful. Neutral language when it comes to Tom. Tom, his friend. His totally platonic friend that he happened to share a bed with, once upon a time, when they saw each other. Which they won’t, anymore. Who he thinks about kissing, fairly often, but never did. And now he won’t.

So: Totally Platonic Tom.

“How did you know?” he asks Taylor, affirming her suspicions. It’s Taylor; she’d see right through him if he tried to lie.

“I just knew.”

“Some sort of weird sibling sixth-sense thing?”

“Or some of sort gay-sibling homing beacon.” She shrugs. “We’ve got to stick together, yeah?”

That’s also how Barclay became the first person Taylor came out to, and he was suddenly very grateful to be pulled alongside her. 

**November. 2014.**

He almost slips on Tom’s birthday.

They’re drunk and it’s hard, being around Tom like that. They’re already pushing the boundaries, being this affectionate. Have been for nearly two months now, at least since Bermuda. It’s driving Barclay up a wall, the way Tom leans into him to whisper in his ear and how close to him Tom insists on sitting. He orders another round with Tom practically in his lap.

They take a picture that night, tiny Tom wrapped around Barclay, and he hopes to god that Tom’s hand on his chest is too numb to feel how hard his heart is pounding.

They get back to the house late and Barclay thinks he should kiss Tom. For his birthday and for the bants and all that.

But he’s drunk and nervous and Tom passes out first. Barclay hands James the pen to draw a willy on Tom’s cheek, and that’s almost good enough.

Almost.

But not quite.

**January. 2015.**

Charlotte leaves Tom, and Barclay is the first person he tells. They’re on Facetime, early in the morning -- early enough that Tom woke Barclay, and no one ever rises before Barclay -- and Barclay knows exactly how Tom got that wrinkle on his cheek from the pillowcase because he knows how Tom sleeps. Knows how he smells in the morning and how he sounds.

He’d always shared that knowledge with Charlotte. And now, he doesn’t.

He tries to not read into it.

But his heart flutters a bit when he’s the first person to make Tom laugh after the break up. And he can’t stop himself from thinking, _Maybe._

****

Back in London, they start sharing a bed. Tom is the one to bring it up.

“It’d be cheaper to get one less bedroom in the flat and even cheaper to get one bed.” He looks up at Barclay, worries his thumbnail with his teeth. “If we’re cheap enough, maybe Simon’ll want us.” Then he grins. It’s a little put-on, but Barclay knows by now that laughter is how Tom deals with things. “Plus, y’know. It’d be bants, for sure.”

Barclay’s mouth dries up, but he nods along. Tom is the decision maker, after all. They move into a flat with Casey and Reece, and Tom cooks them all dinner the first night. It’s terrible, but Barclay eats it anyway without complaint.

And it becomes the flat where every night, Barclay goes to bed with Tom. They turn the lights out in unison and in the dark, Tom backs himself up against Barclay. He never makes a move beyond that, beyond just _touching_ , but he lets Barclay hold him in place and Tom falls asleep peacefully in his arms.

Reece, red as a tomato, asks them why one morning while Tom’s bossing everyone around to make him tea and toast, and Barclay keeps his head ducked into the refrigerator so he can hear what Tom has to say.

It’s not like he hasn’t wondered, too.

“Sleep better with a warm body in bed, don’t I?” Tom asks. “‘S’what Barcs is here for. You’re here for toast, Casey’s for tea, and Barcs is so I can sleep.” He pauses. “Got used to a cuddle having Charlotte for so long. Someday you’ll know the comfort of a good woman, Bibbs.”

**April. 2015.**

Their tour starts and Barclay remembers how he started falling for Tom a long time ago -- longer than they’ve been a band, probably, but no one needs to know that. Being on stage with him is like magic, igniting something in every part of him that he can’t explain. Part of it’s the music, sure; there’s nothing like getting up to sing and having all those eyes on you.

The eyes he feels most are Tom’s, right across from him.

Somehow, despite the sold-out crowds and the six boys they share the stage with, things never feel more intimate than when he’s performing with Tom. The music feels more alive.

Simon was probably right. He is better in a group. 

The crowds pick up on it, the rush Barclay gets -- maybe all eight of them do, to be fair -- from sharing that stage. They start playing their own music -- Tom’s music -- and it only takes the time between two shows for the audience to sing his words back at them.

Tom glows in those moments. Barclay watches him the whole time, until eventually Tom notices him back. He dances over to him and Tom leans forward. There’s a guitar between them and they’re dancing, shoulder-shimmying back and forth and the crowd forgets that they ever knew the words to Tom’s song. They howl and Barclay doesn’t stop smiling.

They were meant for this.

They’re better together.

****

Even willing himself all the time not to get hard, Barclay slips up more than once. Every time, Tom laughs it off. _Lonely, Barcs?_ he teases, but he doesn’t remove himself from where his ass is perched against Barclay’s cock. It’s the worst kind of stalemate imaginable.

And then, once Tom is asleep, Barclay takes care of himself in the bathroom. The aftermath is confusing and lonely and he falls asleep on the opposite side of the bed. He wakes up either shivering without any duvet or overheated with a sleep-sweaty Tom glommed onto him again, both of them teetering right on the edge of the mattress.

He wakes up one morning after their tour to find Tom wanking right next to him.

Barclay blinks a few times, unmoving, and Tom is right there, sweat dripping off his face and his cock pressed against his palm, close enough that Barclay can feel the heat coming off his body. He shouldn’t think it smells good, but it does.

He shouldn’t watch, either, but it’s there and it’s happening, and if that scrunched up face Tom is making is any indication, it’s about to be over before he could do anything about it anyway. Tom’s eyes open and he looks down at Barcs -- their eyes connect right as Tom spills over, come running down his stomach and a soft whine in the back of his throat. His boxers are scrunched down around his thighs like he couldn’t even wait to get up, take them off.

Barclay swallows and doesn’t dare look from Tom’s face.

“Sorry. About that,” Tom says through heavy breaths. “Though you were… sleep. Still.”

He tilts his head back against the headboard. Sunlight pours through the window, bouncing off the fine layer of sweat covering him and he looks positively ethereal and Barclay would almost definitely come right then if Tom touched him.

“‘S fine,” he croaks out. His mind reels for something funny or punny -- bants -- but he comes up short.

_Please don’t let Tom notice the silence._

Tom reaches for the bedstand, where a roll of tissue lies in wait. Slowly, he wipes himself clean, removing as much of his come from his stomach hairs as he can.

That shouldn’t make Barclay hard _and yet._

The tissues get wadded up and tossed back to the nightstand and Tom exits for a much-needed shower. He leaves his boxers where they fall on the carpet.

Barclay’s never come so quickly in his life, a few short humps against the mattress like he’s never had sex or known how much better wanking could be.

He cleans himself with the same loo roll and adds his tissues to the pile. In a moment of triumph, he takes a picture, uploading it to snapchat immediately.

Maybe Tom will get it. And maybe he won’t. It’s not saying too much.

“‘Think of it what you will,’” Tom calls out from the bathroom a few minutes later. “That’s hilarious. Tweet that.”

Because Tom asked, he does.

**May. 2015.**

“You’ve got to see this picture, hold on.” Barclay scrolls furiously through his phone, landing on a picture from a few nights before, where he was absolutely smashed. He’s not sure why he took the picture, but his arse always seems to be out when he’s drunk and for some reason it’s important that Tom knows this.

“Still obsessed with your own bum?” Tom is holding Barclay’s phone and zooming in on various part of the picture until he lands on a close up of Barcs’ naked bum, proudly on display.

“It’s bants, innit?”

“You should post it.” Tom hands his phone back. There are a few fingerprints on the screen like Tom’s hands were sweaty.

“Yeah, okay.” Barclay laughs. “‘Cause that’ll help us get a deal.”

Tom knuckles Barclay’s cheek like a granny, and Barclay laughs for real, jerking his head away as Tom nods. “I’m serious. The world needs to see that picture.” Then he leaves the room.

Barclay hesitates, but taps the new photo icon on instagram, anyway. Then he turns off his notifications. The front door slams like Tom’s actually gone out, so Barclay wanders across the gap to Reece’s room for a pizza and bad telly. 

“Should you have tweeted that?” Reece asks. “Liability, and that?”

The pizza doesn’t sit right in Barclay’s stomach, but he shrugs. “Tom said it would be funny.”

Reece just stuffs an entire slice into his mouth at once and points to the set of boobs on-screen.

After a while, and a few texts from Julie worrying the same as Reece, Tom makes Barclay a cup of tea before they go to sleep that night. Brings it to him in bed and everything. It’s like that One Direction song.

“Proper domestic, Mann.” He sips cautiously, pulls a face for Tom’s benefit. “Terrible.”

“Please. I make a mean cup of tea.” Tom steals the corner of the duvet and folds it up to his chin.

Barclay tweets that, too.

**June. 2015.**

“Number twelve in midweeks is good.”

“Midweeks counts pre-orders. If the rest of the week doesn’t hold up…” Tom trails off, his fingers in his mouth and Barclay, emboldened by their midweek success, grabs Tom’s hand and pulls it from his teeth.

“It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna chart and it’s gonna be fine.” He drapes himself over Tom, cuddling into him and taking in a deep breath. This, he could get used to.

He imagines, briefly, that the single charts even higher than at midweeks and that Tom, finally rid of his anxiety, will make a real move. Because that has to be his hesitation. They’re all so nervous about the single, they can’t even think straight. Especially Tom, since he wrote it, and he’s the oldest, the hardest to market. He has a beard, for pete’s sake.

Soon, that would be over. They won’t be in this… limbo, anymore. They’ll know where they fit and be given a real place to keep. And maybe… well. Maybe Barclay will get to keep Tom.

“Hey,” he says, softly, and wraps one hand around Tom’s wrist. “Stop chewing your hand off. Come watch Celeb Juice with me.”

He keeps his arms around Tom’s ribs and his hands wrapped tight over Tom’s wrists the whole time. It’s just to keep him from biting his nails raw. That’s all.

For now.

****

The office feels too small for eight boys. Bibby is next to Barclay, his knees bouncing up and down and knocking into him, but Barcs doesn’t say anything.

Thirty-one.

Charlie started crying before they even came through the door. Somewhere behind Barclay, he’s sniffling still. James and Casey and Chris all have on sunglasses although they’re indoors, but the red tip of Casey’s nose spells enough why. Jake’s knuckles all sport plasters.

Barclay just feels numb.

_Thirty-one._

It wasn’t good enough. They all know that. Management wanted a Top Ten; might’ve even settled for a Top Twenty.

The boys had really thought they could give them that. Thought they had. How did they drop so far in only four days? They were twelve. They were number twelve.

They were.

As far as Barcs knows, no one had even discussed what would happen if they didn’t make it. It just seemed so certain. James even said in an interview, _you’ll be writing about us hitting top ten_. Even Dev, about to break all their hearts, read out that so many people predicted Stereo Kicks were going #1.

Only off by thirty, weren’t they?

Barclay has to still Reece’s bouncing knees with a heavy, rough hand when the guys from Grant start talking. A lot of heavy words are tossed around. “Insufficient.” “Outweighs.” “Unrealistic.” 

He doesn’t understand everything that’s said in that room, but he knows the outcome.

The band is over.

Somehow it seems like the people in charge, the powers that be, think they were all worse together, not better. Too expensive for eight and not worth trying to -- understand. What Barclay doesn’t understand, never will, is how they just couldn’t see it. 

****

Tom leaves the room first. Barclay doesn’t immediately follow. He stays, gives Reece a quick hug. No one else seems to want to be touched. Reece is so small and so sad in Barclay’s hug that he’s a little worried that he’ll just fade away and disappear, pop like a dwarf star into a wisp of nothing.

“I’ve got a gig,” Reece mutters instead into Barclay’s chest. “In London. I’ll be alright. You?”

Barclay shakes his head.

Without Stereo Kicks, he doesn’t really have anything.

He lets go of Reece.

It doesn’t surprise him that Tom is waiting for him outside.

“So that’s it.” Barcs starts off, and it’s a shit way to break the ice, but here they are, and what else could be said, really?

“That’s it.” Tom doesn’t meet his eyes.

They don’t say anything for a minute. It’s a lot to take in, and not something Barclay is particularly interested in processing aloud. Tom doesn’t have the same concerns.

“Y’know, I just thought… I thought we were doing everything right,” he spouts off, the moment of silence broken by a tidal wave of thought. “I gave them boy band. I did everything I was supposed to. When we were on the show, I even fucking waxed my chest for them. I looked younger than Charlie. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

“We all did.” Barclay frowns. 

“Yeah.” Tom says and it shuts that conversation down. They could spend hours, days literally trying to locate where they went wrong. It wouldn’t change anything. All they can do now is find a place to go from here.

It could be a blessing in disguise, this split. For the first time in months, there would be so much freedom on the horizon, things they’d never been allowed before. Boy bands have an image to keep, after all. Now all of that was gone and they could be… well, they could be anything. No more Charming Kick and Sporty Kick, just Barclay. And Tom.

“We can still… I mean, you’ve got your music. And I can still be there. With you. If you want.” 

It’s the closest Barclay’s ever come to telling Tom what he feels. He still can’t say the words. Or the right words, anyway. He doesn’t really know what those would be; he’s good with a pun, but real words -- that’s never been him. But Tom knows him better than anyone else, and he has to know what he means by the few words he does offer.

But Tom just laughs. And it hollows out Barclay’s chest. “What’s the point?”

_The point is me. You’d have me._

He doesn’t say it. He’s probably already said too much, if that wasn’t immediately obvious.

Tom doesn’t stop. “That was just -- what boy bands do these days, innit? The gay angle, or… shipping. ‘Tomclay’ and ‘Jamclay’ and googley eyes and bums. Just another thing I did ‘cause I was supposed to. I gave them -- you and me and every ‘tomclay’ news fodder they could ever want, like, 1D aren’t even friends anymore, so I thought people’d notice us instead. Fat lot of good that did.”

**July. 2015.**

“Have you told Connor yet? Or Dad?”

Taylor shakes her head. “Nah. Figured I’d practice on you, but then you started in about Tom, and god, Barcs, you’re so obvious.”

Tom had texted him that morning. _Egypt is bants. Wish you were here. x_

He shows the text to Taylor. “Is that obvious? ‘Cause I can’t fucking figure it out.”

She snatches his phone, scrolling through their text history. She’s the only person in the world who could get away with doing that.

She frowns before tossing the phone back to him. “For something that was supposed to be an act, he still seems committed to you.”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s in Egypt right now.” As far away from his failed band and failed… whatever it was that he considered this thing with Barclay, as he could be. Failed almost, failed nothing, failed game of pretend with someone who didn’t have a sheet of the rules.

“In Egypt, where he’s not posting on instagram or twitter, but still texting you.”

His phone lights up then, Tom’s name flashing across the screen.

Taylor grins. “He’s in Egypt and he knows you’re talking about him. Those fans were right that you have telepathy.”

“He doesn’t know shit.” Barclay says, his phone still blinking Tom’s name at him. “Or I don’t.”

“Then tell him. Or ask. Just stop being so stupid.” Taylor walks out of the room.

The photo of Tom on Barclay’s phone shows him wearing one of Barclay’s shirts, sitting up in the bed they used to share in London when they had a flat and a reason to be there together. They don’t anymore.

But Tom’s still calling.

Barclay’s thumb swipes on his phone.


End file.
